To the Touch
by cherryblossomriot
Summary: They started small. In fact, they seemed so insignificant, he dismissed them. A brush of hands that induced a brief, hazy image. A playful shove that emitted a quick, almost dream-like scene. An embrace that sent tendrils of thoughts to his mind. Thoughts that were not his own. (Story requested by Shiranai Atsune)


**Hey there! ****This was requested by Shiranai Atsune, and I played around with the idea a little bit before coming up with this. I don't think this story will be too long, but tell me what you think and if you want more!**

* * *

They started small. In fact, they seemed so insignificant, he dismissed them. A brush of hands that induced a brief, hazy image. A playful shove that emitted a quick, almost dream-like scene. An embrace that sent tendrils of thoughts to his mind. Thoughts that were not his own. As he grew older, they became stronger. He saw still moments, like stolen polaroids, at the slightest of touches. Sometimes, rarely, he heard whispers, ones that never felt as though they matched the situation. Once, when his uncle had picked him up and swung him through the air like a rag doll, he'd heard the words, "_Don't go!" _reverberate through his brain. He didn't understand from where they had came, or even why he'd heard them at all, but nonetheless, they were there. Originally, the images only lasted as long as the physical contact, and dissipated like summer daydreams as soon as the connection of skin on skin broke. But as time progressed, the pictures began to move and speak, and even adopted a life of their own. The soft kiss of his mother's lips on his forehead conjured a jarring vision of a dark room, _his room_, and a lone figure, shoulders hunched and hands covering their eyes, sobbing on the bed. _His _bed. And this time, unlike so many other instances, he remembered his vision. It plagued him at night, as he lay on that same bed. He couldn't help but wonder, who was in the vision? His mother? Or someone else? And if it was his mother, why was she crying? And where was he? Despite his best attempts, he couldn't rid himself from the vision and the questions it produced. Eventually, the constant wondering led him to asking his mother about it, though she merely laughed and ruffled his hair.

"What are you talking about, _Cariño_? You must have been dreaming," she deduced, but Lance knew that it was not a dream.

After that, he didn't ask her, or anyone, about the visions. One Christmas, when he was eight, he overheard his uncle and aunt having a heated discussion on their front porch, and cautiously, hesitantly, he peered through the kitchen window to watch their interaction. Though he didn't comprehend exactly what they were arguing about, he understood their display of emotions clearly. She was angry; he was remorseful. Guilty even. His uncle's body language reminded Lance of the way his sister stood when his mother had caught her stealing tarts from the pantry. As his aunt turned to leave, eyes watery and cheeks rosy, from the argument or the sun Lance didn't know, his uncle cried out, "Don't go!"

Like a sucker punch, the words took Lance's breath away.

Suddenly nauseous, Lance tore his attention from the scene before him and hurried to the nearest trash can, where he promptly emptied the contents of his stomach. Several weeks later, Lance's family learned that his aunt left his uncle. Over the next several months, Lance encountered dozens of small moments of deja-vu. Though to most people these seconds seemed insignificant and trivial, they were monumental to Lance. With each occurance, the theory that began to form in Lance's mind that Christmas day solidified a little more. During one particular mass, Lance heard the priest speak about prophets, people given powers of divination from God. Time slowed when Lance heard that. He'd always heard of prophets, but never had he spared them much thought. Now, however, things were different. Was he one of these prophets? Could he see the future?

As his family walked home from the service, Lance turned to his father.

"Papi?" Lance tugged on his father's sleeve.

"What is it, _Niño_? You've been very quiet, is something wrong?" His father wondered, casting his warm gaze on Lance.

"Do you think there are prophets now?" Lance asked carefully.

"Hmm? Like Samuel and Daniel? Those prophets?"

"Yes," Lance replied, his wide, ocean eyes transfixed on his father.

"Well," his father stroked his chin in contemplation, "I haven't heard about any recently, but who knows?"

Lance nodded, not quite satisfied.

"Why do you ask?" His father inquired suspiciously.

"No reason!" Lance perked up instantly, reverting back to his normal, energetic self. Without giving his father more time to think about it, he turned to his sister, Rachel, and touched the sleeve of her dress.

"Tag, you're it!" He exclaimed, and before Rachel could react, he dashed away.

* * *

After he turned thirteen, the visions became so, so much worse. When he was younger, he saw something every once in a while, but marginally, he could physically interact with others and not see some drastic situation from the future with every brush of skin. But as he entered his teen years, he couldn't even sit too close to someone without worrying about seeing another vision. For a little while, he had viewed these premonitions as blessings, but after he held his nephew for the first time and had a vision of him screaming in terror as he was pulled away from his mother, he started seeing them as what they were. Curses. To make matters worse, now he didn't have to be touching skin in order to see a vision. He experienced them when he touched buildings, or books, or even a stupid light switch. Though he tried to hide it, everyone around him noticed his change in behavior. Despite the occasional dark mood instigated by a rather foreboding vision, for the majority of his life, Lance had been characterized by his loud antics, energy, mischievousness, and joy. Armed with an enchanting smile and endearing personality, Lance charmed everyone who haplessly stumbled into his path. When he began to withdraw himself from society at large, his family started to worry. After several weeks of a touch-shy, moody Lance, his father sat him down one night and tried to give him the dreaded "talk". While the whole transaction ultimately mortified Lance, it also helped explain several things, like why his visions had become stronger. However, it also meant that they wouldn't revert to their old frequency, which shattered Lance's hopes that the onslaught of visions would pass quickly. While many of his diviniations disturbed him, a very few revealed mystifying sights and secrets. Touching a video game controller transported him to a cockpit, the glory of a billion stars displayed before him like an endless sea. In that moment, he felt weightless. Feeling small and powerful at the same time, the sight of those stars glittering like jewels filled him with such conviction that when the vision faded, he didn't realize it. When his mother called to him to announce dinner after what seemed like no time at all and eternity passed, his instant response to her was, "I want to go to the stars."

"_¿Qué?_" His mother blinked, shocked by his seemingly random declaration.

"I want to go to the stars," He repeated patiently.

"You mean the planetarium?" She wondered, flour-covered hands still hovering over her apron.

"No. I mean space," Lance answered, determination surging through his blood.

"How do you plan to do that?" She asked, fear tinting her tone.

"I'll...join the Garrison," Lance nodded, deciding his fate right then and there.

"The Garrison?" His mother's complexion turned as pale as the flour on her hands, and she swallowed twice, trying to wrap her mind around her son's statement.

"Yes. Just like Veronica," he concluded with a grin.

His mother didn't move until several minutes later, when his father placed a hand on her shoulder and reminded her about dinner. Coming to life, she waved him off and ordered Lance to the dining room, but she didn't forget Lance's statement. And though she hoped his decision would pass like a phase of the moon, she could tell by the determination in his eyes that it never would.


End file.
